Departure
by Insomniac Owl
Summary: They would make it. He was confident of that, at least.


**Departure**

_By Insomniac Owl_

-

Deidara's room was cold, the windows left open from the night before. They had been open since ten, air drifting in and filling up space until he shivered even beneath four blankets. It was a little peculiar how suddenly winter came sometimes - though perhaps not so much, what with the forecasts his area was getting now (snow, imagine! And in early October!) - sweeping out of nowhere to freeze the neighbors' gardens and force him to drag the winter things out of the attic. His mother didn't want to do it, so every year he ascended the trapdoor in the spare bedroom and threw down blankets amid puffs of dust. The winter before he had snuck one without his mother noticing and snipped it up for an art project.

He cupped his hands around a cigarette as he lit it, inhaling nicotine bliss.

This early in the morning his windows were thick with frost, icy fingers that hung about the edges. It would fade as morning approached, he knew, but he glared through a cover of hair nonetheless.

How he wanted to leave this town! He was seventeen now, making pottery in his bedroom and getting poor marks in school to convince his mother to disown him. If he caused enough trouble, he figured, she would let him go. But she confronted him time after time with tenacious desperation, a neatly folded report card behind her back or a note from a teacher (and once a note from the principal - he'd been caught with explosive substances on school grounds). This had continued until a few weeks ago, when he made his decision to leave this town for good.

As the clock on his bed table flipped to 2:37, he rolled off his sheets, shuffling to the closet. Behind the doors were sculptures of pots and various other arts. He painted a little too - large papers were neatly stored in one corner, rolled and tied with red and black strings.

He'd converted his art studio into his bedroom a few years ago, laying out rugs on one half and disassembling his bed to bring it in. He also brought his dresser, a few books and manuals, and all the art supplies he kept in his old room. The space down the hall was now purely storage; when he finished a piece he often moved it to that room to dry, but if he really liked it he moved it back, as a result engaging himself in a near constant shuffling of artwork, as the rapidity with which he finished pieces was matched only by his shifting enthusiasm for each.

He had just picked out a blank canvas when a car pulled up in front of the house. A nearby streetlamp cast bright yellow glares on the windows; the person inside was invisible, but for a shock of red and the vaguest of outlines. The driver's side door swung open, and a familiar head popped into view.

A few minutes later the window had been shut, and Sasori stood in Deidara's room brushing snow from his hair. It was snowing only very lightly outside, and the flakes soon melted into the carpet.

"That's going to leave stains, yeah." Deidara said.

Sasori sat on the bed, twisting a ring around his finger. "Are you ready or not?" he asked, looking around the room. "You said three, but you don't look like you're ready."

"Well you're early, yeah. And I _am_ ready." Deidara pulled a bag out of his closet, dropping it near the window. The snow had stopped altogether now, but the closed window, still thick with ice, gave him only a hazy view of the street. He turned back to Sasori, who had laid down and put his hands behind his head.

A momentary silence.

"Are we going, then?" Sasori asked. He checked the watch on his wrist perfunctorily, then looked to Deidara's alarm clock. The wristwatch was broken, the face smashed out long ago. Deidara couldn't honestly say he knew why the other boy wore it - it was broken, and falling apart besides; there was only sentimental value to keep it, if there had been any to begin with.

A few weeks ago, Deidara had mentioned his desire to get away and Sasori, to his delight, had agreed with him. They had set up several possible dates, but tonight was the only one both had been free. (Sasori had confessed that his grandmother found his date book, into which he had written all the possible dates. As they passed, she had grown less and less suspicious and he was able to get out of the house.)

"We're only getting one shot at this," Sasori murmured, brushing his hair from his eyes. His juvenile face was serious, and laced with aprehension. "If your mom catches us, we won't get out until we're twenty."

"What are you waiting for then, yeah?" Smoke left his lips as he talked, drifting up to the ceiling fan to disappear.

They opened the window then and climbed out, Deidara lifting his bag and boxes of his best art through after. He stuffed the last of a few large bills into his hip pocket as they walked, carrying two boxes of art that he'd chosen to bring along. (He didn't want to drag too much of his past with him, for fear he would be burdened and slow). The driveway was slick with frozen sprinkler-water, and they kept to the grass, though it crunched uncomfortably underfoot, making noises like he would imagine small, broken bird bones to make.

Once at the car, Deidara dropped his things into the backseat, where Sasori's already waited (a duffel bag similar to Deidara's but red, and boxes of things Deidara assumed were art supplies and finished works). His empty, still-open window stared out at him as they drove away, leaving a tail of exhaust in their wake. It faded, and they were gone.

The city passed quickly, all stoplights and the noise of passing cars, and then they were on the highway and moving much more quickly. Deidara looked in the rearview mirror at the boarding ramp, and the city behind it - his city.

"We made it, yeah," he murmured, smiling into the rearview mirror. As the city lights faded and the brake lights of cars ahead took their place, he leaned comfortably back into his seat. Beside him, Sasori had settled with his hands slung lazily around the wheel.

They had only one chance out there - there was no going back if they messed up, or made a fatal mistake; this was not a game, there was no _start over!_ Deidara turned back to the road, a vague smile coming onto his face. They would make it. He was confident of that, at least.

**finis**


End file.
